


Up All Night

by triedunture



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dirty Talk, Drug Use, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Roommates, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:10:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky starts taking benzedrine to help him stay awake through his double shifts, but it has some unintended side effects. </p><p>Steve is upset by this. Until he's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up All Night

**Author's Note:**

> Please allow me to just copy/paste my note to [BTI](http://bewaretheides315.tumblr.com/), who was a very encouraging first reader: OK LISTEN first off: I know this is ludicrous. Bennies are not sex pollen I know that. BUT WIKIPEDIA SAYS IT MAY CAUSE ERECTIONS THAT LAST WAY LONGER THAN NORMAL so let's call it.....historically inaccurate sex pollen????
> 
> Just roll with it, y'all. 
> 
> Just. Roll. With it.

Bucky works too hard, is the problem. Steve can see the evidence plain as day: his sallow cheeks and dark-ringed eyes, the way he blinks his way blearily through breakfast, his constant and pained yawns. 

"Got to work while I can get it," Bucky says. "Double shifts mean double the money."

"Yeah, but at what cost, Buck?" Steve wants to reach over their plates of eggs, across the breakfast table, and place a palm on Bucky's pale forehead. He wants to brush the lank hair out of his eyes. At the very least, he wants Bucky to go back to bed and get one more hour of shut-eye. "You can't keep running yourself ragged like this," he says instead. "Something's got to give."

Bucky hums and shovels more eggs into his mouth. "Something's got to give," he repeats in a low mumble, like it's a prayer. 

He leaves before the clock strikes eight to be down at the docks by nine. It's backbreaking work, to hear him tell it. And since ships come in at all hours, it's a job that can last all day if he lets it. They need the cash to pay for this awful flop with its broken steps and drafty windows; they're down to their last tin of beans and heel of bread. They need, and Bucky provides. 

And Steve? Oh, he's got jobs. He carries his weight, or tries to. But the work of an artist is more sporadic. One week he may have ten signs to hand-letter, or a dozen different posters to draw for a club. The next week, he may have nothing. And so Bucky works, and his hands get calloused and his language gets coarser and his smile doesn't appear as often, and Steve hates himself for not being able to keep Buck away from this life. 

They're twenty years old, Bucky older by just three months, and Steve still can't stop his friend from trying to protect him.

Bucky comes home that night stinking of sweat and saltwater. For the first time in a long time, he doesn't go straight to the bedroom, fall face-first into the mattress, and sleep like the dead. His eyes are bright when they catch sight of Steve sitting at the kitchen table, working on his charcoals. 

"Hey pal," Bucky says, sitting backwards on the other chair and leaning forward with a too-wide grin. "Long day?"

"Yeah. You?" Steve catalogs Bucky carefully. He's rumpled and worn from work, but he's not exhausted anymore. And that's worrisome. 

Bucky gives him a curious little smirk, doesn't answer his question. His right leg jumps to the tune of some unheard music. "Want to put on a record? I could use some Duke Ellington." 

Steve glances at the dark windows, then at the clock. "Uh, it's kind of late for that. Wouldn't it wake the neighbors?" 

Bucky sighs dramatically. "The perils of living in this ant farm of ours. I can't dance with you at all hours," he says, and it's such an un-Buckylike statement that Steve has to stop himself from recoiling. 

"You feeling okay?" he says slowly. This time, he doesn't stop himself from reaching over and putting his hand to Bucky's forehead. He uses his left, the one not stained black with charcoal. Bucky is hot to the touch, a little sweaty too. "You sick or something?"

"What makes you say that?" Bucky asks, but he doesn't pull away. Leans into it, if anything, like he's starving for it.

Steve pulls back his hand, shaking it out as if it was burned. "Maybe you should go lie down."

Bucky's eyes light up even more. "What an idea," he murmurs. "A damn fine idea. Why don't you help me to bed, Steve? Since I'm so feverish and all."

Steve regards him warily, wondering what trick Buck might be playing or what the joke is supposed to be. But in the end he puts down his charcoal stick, cleans his hands off with a rag, and gets up. "Lack of sleep must be making you punchy," he says. "Come on. What you need is seven solid hours." He takes Bucky by the arm to help him up from the chair, and Bucky stands—too close—his mouth parted and wet, his eyes trained on Steve's face. 

"Is that all I need?" he asks quietly, and steps closer. 

Before he knows what's happening, Steve is crowded against the kitchen counter and Bucky is right there, pressing a thick and insistent erection into Steve's fluttering belly. He can feel its pulse through their slacks. It's a steady beat that competes with the rush of blood in his ears.

"Buck—?" 

"Let me tell you about what I need," Bucky says, and kisses him, frenetic and rough. 

It isn't how Steve had pictured it, this Heaven. He'd always imagined it would be slow and careful, the way he'd grown to love this boy of his. His dreams had been filled with whispered confessions and tears wiped away on tentative fingertips. He feels silly now; how small and fragile the scenes in his imagination had been. His arms come up to wrap around Bucky's neck, and he kisses him in return. He should have known Bucky's love for him wouldn't need coaxing. He should have known—

Something hard pokes him in the hip, and it's not Bucky's cock. It's something in his trouser pocket, the shape and hardness of it strangely familiar. For the briefest of moments, Steve wonders if there's been some kind of mix-up; maybe Bucky is wearing the wrong slacks, the ones with Steve's inhaler nestled in the pocket. 

But that doesn't make any sense. That doesn't— 

Steve tears his mouth away from Bucky's, his hand digging into that traitorous pocket. 

"Hey, don't," Bucky says, but Steve's faster. 

He holds up the little metal cylinder. Reads the label. 

"Benzedrine?" he chokes out. "You're taking benzedrine?" 

Bucky covers his face with his hands and groans into them. "Stevie, come on."

"Is that why you're so wired?" Steve snaps. 

"Well, I needed something to keep me going, didn't I?" Bucky says in return. His face is inches from Steve's, red and overheated. 

Steve shoves at his shoulders, ashamed that he can barely move Buck an inch. "Get off me." 

Bucky obligingly takes a big step back, gesturing with a flourish for Steve to escape in the hole he's made. Steve does, shaky on his watery legs. His fists ball in poorly suppressed anger; years of hoping for a kiss from Buck, and when he finally gets it, it's because the mook is out of his gourd. Isn't that just perfect.

"All the guys at the docks use it. I would've been dead on my feet hours ago if it weren't for this," Bucky says with a whine in his voice. 

Steve ignores him. He picks up his abandoned dinner plate and scrapes it clean, allowing it to clatter into the sink.

"Hell, it's not like it's against the law," Bucky tries again. "I don't see why you're so steamed."

"Because." Steve reaches for something else to do, starts putting away the dishes that are stacked to dry on the counter. He slams the cupboards as he works. "I know what that stuff can do to you." He knows all too well, actually. It was one of many medications they'd tried to give him for his asthma. It didn't take.

"Is that right?" Bucky's behind him now, crowding him again. His dick is still rock hard where it slides against Steve's ass. 

"Jesus!" Steve whirls, crabbing away with his hands on the counter behind him for balance. "How much did you use?" 

"Enough to give me wood for the last hour, I guess," Bucky says with a laugh. "Do you get hard when you take it too?" 

Steve shrugs away from his grasping hands. "No. Just made me jittery." And more apt to pick fights, even more so than usual, but no sense in telling Buck that, he figures. "But I've seen it happen at the hospital. This junk messes with your brain, makes you act like an animal."

Bucky leans into his space again, eyes glinting in the low light. "I could howl if you like," he says. 

"Get ahold of yourself," Steve says, shoving him aside. He stalks away, into the bedroom, neck prickling with the sensation of being followed. 

"Hey, don't be sore with me." Bucky's hand catches his wrist. Steve tries to tug his way free, but Bucky—damn it all—is stronger, and Steve ends up pulled back, whirled around, chest to chest with him. "So I'm a little braver when I'm on this stuff," Bucky says in a slightly less manic tone. "That don't mean it's making me crazy for just anybody."

For a moment, Steve's resolve falters. "What do you mean?"

Bucky ducks his head, gives a half-shrug. "Could've stopped at a dive or something on my way home, you know. But I don't want anyone else. I want to be here." He looks up through his too-long lashes. "With you, Stevie." 

Steve's lips part. How easy it would be to believe every word Bucky says. But the fact is, Bucky's never said or done anything to show he's wanted this before now, and Steve would know. He's been watching for a sign for, dear Lord, ages. 

He pulls away, though it's the hardest thing he's done in his whole young life. "Talk to me when you've got your head on straight," Steve says quietly.

He doesn't look back; he doesn't want to see the look on Bucky's face. He goes into the bedroom and closes the door. But he doesn't lock it. 

He's never been scared of Bucky, and he's not about to start now.

There are two beds in their shared room: the real one and the bad one. The real one has a wooden frame with bedposts and everything, a lucky find when their upstairs neighbor was moving to Ohio and selling her old things for cheap. The bad bed is just a shabby mattress that sits on the floor in a dejected heap of pillows and blankets. They usually trade off for the good bed, and tonight was supposed to be Steve's turn, but he can't bring himself to take it. If Steve's experience with the drug is any indication, Bucky will feel like the walking dead once it wears off. He should get the more comfortable bed, if only to reduce his aches and pains. 

So Steve strips down to his skivvies, but leaves his undershirt on as an afterthought. He crawls into the bad bed and lays on his side facing away from the wall. It's his preferred position; can't sleep on his back or stomach with his lungs the way they are. He pulls the thin bedsheet up to his neck and settles in.

When Bucky comes in a few minutes after that, Steve closes his eyes and feigns sleep. His muscles are locked and ready for a fight, though, if that's the way Bucky plays it. But he doesn't, just says "Steve?" in that quiet nighttime voice of his. 

Steve doesn't answer. He can feel the disappointment coming off Buck in waves when he sighs, the sound full of knowing that Steve's faking it. 

He hears the noises of Bucky undressing: the flutter of fabric and jangle of his belt buckle, the thud of his shoes on the floorboards. Then the good bed creaks under a heavy weight and Steve knows Bucky's where he should've gone the minute he arrived home. 

Except Bucky doesn't fall asleep. 

Steve can hear him tossing and turning, flopping onto his stomach for a moment before rolling over with a low groan. 

"Can't sleep like this," comes Bucky's soft murmur. Steve just squeezes his eyes shut even harder. He will _not_ pity Buck; he got himself into this mess, he can handle it alone.

He just didn't realize how Bucky would go about that, exactly. 

The whisper of cotton and snap of an elastic waistband are loud in the quiet room. Steve's skin prickles as his brain conjures images of what must be happening. No, he thinks, that's nuts. Bucky wouldn't—

But Bucky gives a long sigh of relief, and Steve can _hear_ the slide of skin on skin. He can _hear_ a stifled gasp followed by a series of bitten-off whimpers. 

Christ. Bucky's beating off mere feet away from him, the jackass. 

This is so unfair, Steve wants to sit up and holler that the bathroom is right down the hall. God knows Steve's had to creep in there dozens of times to take care of himself in the middle of the night. It's just the decent thing to do, an unspoken kindness between two friends living in such close quarters. Bucky would _never_ violate that law.

Steve cracks one eye open just to be sure. It takes a moment to adjust to the dim shadows of the bedroom, but the light from the streetlamps is enough to show him what's happening: Bucky is laying back stark naked, one leg bent with its knee pointing to the ceiling, the other splayed wide. He's got one hand in the center of his chest and the other between his legs, jacking off his thick cock. 

Bucky turns his head towards him, and Steve shuts his eye before he's caught. He can feel Bucky's gaze on his face. His cheeks burn from it, but he stays motionless on his ragged mattress, not breathing, heart pounding. 

"Got to." It's so quiet beneath the slick sounds of Bucky touching himself that Steve almost thinks he imagined it. But Bucky repeats himself, "I just got to do something. 'm so hard." 

Steve considers grabbing a pillow and holding it over his head to block out Bucky's words, but he can't move. Not after playing dead for so long. It would just make this awkward situation even more awkward. 

Best to just ride it out. Let Bucky get it out of his system. Pretend it never happened in the morning.

But Bucky won't stop it with the damn _talking_. 

"Wanted you bad tonight, Stevie," he says, a whisper in the dark. "Wanted to make love to you with my mouth, my hands, whatever part of me you'd take." His voice takes on a begging timbre. "Was always scared you didn't want any of it, but you kissed me back. God, I swear you did. I felt it." 

Steve lies paralyzed in his bed, listening to this confession. It's what he's always wanted to hear, but Bucky's in such bad shape, he might be saying anything to convince Steve to lend a hand. So Steve holds his tongue and doesn't move.

The wet squelch of Bucky's hand on his dick grows louder. Steve takes a quick peek; he can see the glint of it in the streetlights, the wetness on Bucky's cock and his fingers. The sight is enough to make him stiff under the sheets. He closes his eyes tight once more and prays for control, stifling his own groan of want.

"But I ruined everything tonight," Bucky breathes softly. "Tomorrow I won't be so brave, and you'll— You won't—" He lets out a pained sound, something so tortured that Steve's eyes fly open with fear that he's hurt. He sees Bucky's hand wrapped too-tight around the base of his twitching, leaking dick. 

"Steve." It's a tiny sound. His hand moves again, slower this time, fisting up and down his shaft.

"God, _Steve_ ," he says, tossing his head back on the pillow.

Steve wouldn't look away for a hundred dollars now. He stares at the picture Buck makes on the good bed, and his hand steals downward underneath the bedsheet to cup his own aching cock. It's so hard it hurts, and he can't help massaging it through the thin cotton. His fingers slip into his underwear and wrap around his dick. He watches Bucky touch himself, and he touches himself in kind. It's an easy thing to match Bucky's speed, his rhythms. Bucky's hips jerk off the mattress, and Steve's follow suit. Mirror images moving in the night.

Bucky turns his head and Steve can see his mouth's wide open in an effort to gasp for air. His eyes are closed but as Steve watches, they flutter open. And then Bucky is looking at Steve, and they see each other. 

"Steve?" Bucky's voice cracks, but his hand doesn't slow. 

"Shh." It's the only sound he can give in answer. His hand moves faster under the sheet. Bucky's gaze goes to the movement there, then lifts back to Steve's face. His cock is straining in his hand, so full it looks painful. 

"Please let me see you," Bucky says. "Please. Let me."

Steve's lust-fogged brain thinks that sounds pretty fair, considering Bucky's not wearing any clothes. He kicks the sheets off with a paddle of his feet and pulls the waistband of his boxers down to hug under his full balls. The chilled air hits his exposed skin, and he sucks in a breath at the sensation. But his hand doesn't falter, just keeps jacking his cock in time with Bucky. 

Bucky's eyes shine like beacons in the dark, and Steve can't look away. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he says, "God in Heaven. You look so good. Wondered how'd you look so, so many times. I—" His eyes shut tight as his hand speeds up.

Steve makes an encouraging sound at the back of his throat, craning his neck to watch Bucky's hips arch off the bed. He looks so close, but he doesn't come. Instead, Steve only hears a choked sob escape his lips. 

"It's you I want, it's you, just you. Oh, Steve, please—" His free hand, the one not jerking his cock, stretches out toward Steve, palm open and beseeching. 

Steve's spine fights off a shiver. He climbs out of his nest of tangled sheets and stands jelly-like in the dark, hand held protectively over his erection. Bucky's eyes are still closed, but they snap open when Steve takes his offered hand. Their fingers lace briefly, squeeze, then part.

Steve shushes him again before he clambers onto the good bed, climbs on top of Bucky. He's as light as a feather but still awkward, all sharp elbows and long, skinny limbs. Bucky doesn't seem to mind; he rearranges his body to fit under him. Their knuckles bump where their fists meet between them, cocks curving close. "Finish it, Buck," Steve says, face inches above his.

Bucky gives a pained whine. "Not before you. You close?"

"You got no idea," Steve whispers. The wet slap of flesh echoes in the space between their hips. "Don't worry about it. Bring yourself off." 

It only takes a few more pumps of their cocks before they're coming, Bucky stubbornly outlasting Steve by several seconds. It's a mess. Most of it ends up on Bucky's stomach, a little on his bare chest. Steve wobbles unsteadily above him. It's all he can do to hold himself up instead of collapsing on top of Buck. They share the warm air between their panting mouths, hot breath catching up with them.

"Feeling better?" Steve presses a palm to Bucky's heart. It's racing. 

"Only if you tell me you'll stay in this bed with me tonight," Bucky says. His words are cocky but his face is open, vulnerable. There's still the glint of wetness in his eyes that's only visible in the shifting light from the window. Oh, how Steve loves him in that moment.

He's almost positive he can bed down here with Bucky without any qualms, but he still has to ask: "You're sure?"

Bucky's hand slips around his neck and pulls him down for a kiss. "What's a guy got to do to convince you he's not out of his mind?" he says against Steve's mouth. Another kiss, then he adds, "No more than usual, anyway." 

"You never said anything." Steve kisses him back, then finds Bucky's discarded boxer shorts at the foot of the bed, uses them to wipe some of the come off of him. They stretch out together, side by side, bodies pressed tight. The good bed is good, but it's still narrow. There's not much room for two mostly grown men, even if one is a pipsqueak. 

"You're the brave one," Bucky says quietly in a moment between kisses. "I always thought you'd put your cards on the table, if you ever had cards to show." He rests his forehead against Steve's. "Been living in hell, thinking you couldn't want me, hiding the way I wanted you."

Steve's chest constricts. "I'm sorry. I wasn't brave at all." 

"Not your fault. I'm sorry I couldn't work up the nerve without some pep." Buck draws back, hides a yawn in his shoulder. "Guess it's worn off now, huh?" he says in a slow drawl.

"You should get some sleep." Steve takes a chance and brushes a strand of hair out of Bucky's eyes and tucks it behind his ear.

"How'm I supposed to sleep?" Bucky mumbles as his eyelids droop. "I just got you here." His arms squeeze around Steve's slight frame. "Don't want to miss another minute." 

"You big lunkhead, I'll still be here tomorrow," Steve says.

"Promise?" Bucky says into the hollow of his throat. "Swear on my life?"

Steve presses a kiss into his hair. "Swear on everything. Close your eyes. Go to sleep."

Bucky does, and Steve follows.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to join the Steve/everybody in the universe but especially Bucky at the moment fan club, you can follow me on [tumblr](http://stuffimgoingtohellfor.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic]Up All Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5485469) by [kalakirya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalakirya/pseuds/kalakirya), [readbyjela (jelazakazone)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelazakazone/pseuds/readbyjela)




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